Fiction written real

This Is It

He closed his eyes. His lips quivered. A thousand collective voices roared in his ears. He tried to stomp them out. He pressed his hands against his head, gripping his wavy brown locks. His eyes were closed tighter. His head began to shake, rocking from side to side.

“No!” he shouted in the air above him. He fell into a squat until finally sitting on the round carpet that draped the center of the room. All the lights were off and the curtains covered the windows. The only light he had came from whatever daylight managed to leak in from the almost see through, grainy curtains.

He brought his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms around his legs. His chin sat perfectly in between his knees as he was in a thin, but not too thin, shape. The heavy breathing started, an almost panting, as if he had run a mile.

He scooted back and pressed his body against the front of his black couch. He relaxed his position on the floor separating his legs a little, enough to fit a basketball between his feet. His forearms now sat on his knees with his hands held together. He let out a big sigh. He looked straight ahead. His stare was blank.

He heard the voice of his friend telling him, “don’t worry. It’s all going to be okay,” his best friend trying to reassure him. He imagines his best friend’s hand on his shoulder. A tear formed on the corner of his eye until its heaviness forced it to drop down passed his cheek. He wiped away his tear quickly as though no one was to see it.

It was time for him to get off the floor. When he got to his feet he let out another sigh. He wiped his face to get any dirt off of it. He ran his fingers through his hair and began toward his bureau that rests in the corner of his living room. He opened up one of the double doors and reached his hand inside. Out came a black box about the size of his two hands. He brought it back to the spot on the carpet where he sat before. He placed the box on the floor beside him.

His eyes darted back and forth between the box and the wall in front of him. He placed his hand on the lid of the box. He was shaking. His entire body shuddered. A dark cloud casted over him. He slowly shifted the box closer to him. With his lips pursed he let out an even longer sigh trying to shake off his nerves.

He picked up the black painted shoebox with both hands and set it in front of him, he lifted the lid and just stared at the contents inside. He began to tear up again. He pulled out a notepad. He read the note that he wrote a few days prior. He grabbed a pen and wrote at the bottom, “I love you all.”

“I love you all” he repeated, “This is it.”

He looked back at the box. He slowly reached his hand inside. At this moment the Earth turned a little slower. He had a grip on what was inside. He looked up as he took it out of the box because he was to taking it all in. His head came back down.

He looked longingly at his black .44 Desert eagle magnum. He always kept it around for protection. This time he felt he needed it.

He stared at the gun while it stared back at him. His small tears grew rapidly into a waterfall of sorrow. He was breathing heavier and quicker. Snot began dripping from his nose and his cheeks reddened. His vision blurred because of the water spewing from his eyes.

He closed his eyes and raised the gun to his head. He took a deep breath. He pulled the trigger.